An Earl Like No Other (6 page)

Shortly, Mrs. Arthur arrived, her cheeks slightly flushed, a touch of flour on her nose, but wearing a freshly starched apron. Jeremy had to stop himself from grinning at the sight. He introduced her to his guests and explained the request. She nodded agreement and soon he was left with his remaining guest.

Jeremy assumed Mortimer wished to discuss the mortgage and other vouchers of debt the neighbor held against Kenrick properties. Although Jeremy had managed to whittle it down some by leasing the London townhouse and other economies—like a severely reduced stable—the debt was still of overwhelming proportion.

And it was all held by this man.

“Sir?” Jeremy prompted politely.

“You must be thinking me rather high-handed in suggesting a tour of another man's house,” Mortimer said.

“Tours are not an uncommon phenomenon in houses of historical significance—though I am not sure Kenrick Hall qualifies as such.”

“In this district, it is the only house that does,” Mortimer scoffed. “However, that was not why I had you send the ladies away.”

“You want to discuss financial matters,” Jeremy said flatly.

“Well, yes—and no.”

“My solicitor assures me that the debt is not finally due until mid-October.” Having come this far in the last year, Jeremy refused to give in easily or quickly.

“True. Nor did I have in mind to press for early payment.”

“Then . . .” Jeremy let his voice trail off. This was Mortimer's scene. Let him play it out as he would.

The older man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “ 'Tis a rather delicate matter,” he began slowly, “but I'm a patient man and I've given you some months now to get your footing.” He paused. “Were you aware that there was an understanding of sorts between your brother Charles and my daughter?”

“No. . . . That is, I
have
heard some gossip, but there seems to have been no announcement.”

“No. No. Things had not progressed to that point. Charlotte wasn't sure of her feelings, despite the possibility of becoming a countess. Your father encouraged the match, of course.” Mortimer did not meet Jeremy's gaze.

“I see . . .” Jeremy wondered where this was going. He had seen nothing of the pining lover in Miss Mortimer's demeanor.

“Well, now. The truth is, my little girl wants to be a countess. And she seems somewhat taken with you, my lord.” Now the man gave Jeremy a direct, assessing look.

“I—uh . . . was not aware. That is—Look! I hardly know your daughter, sir.”

“In the higher circles of society, that is not a major consideration,” Mortimer responded.

“Perhaps not, but it is important to
me
.”

“All her life I‘ve tried to give my Charlotte whatever it is she wants.”

“A commendable position, I'm sure,” Jeremy said, trying to absorb the shock of what the man was suggesting.

“She thought she would like to be Lady Kenrick, so I did my best to ensure her heart's desire.”

Jeremy sat quietly for a moment. “I confess I did wonder how—or why—
all
my father's debts—and my brother's too—ended up in the hands of one person.”

“I bought them all,” Mortimer said. “Seemed a prudent step to take.”

“In case Charles proved a reluctant bridegroom?” Jeremy asked coldly.

Mortimer ignored the tone and chuckled. “Oh, he wasn't reluctant—not in the least. He liked the idea of having a generous allowance and leaving the work of managing things to someone else.”

“Did he now?” Jeremy knew it was true. Neither Charles nor their father had been overly interested in the most basic matters of estate management. As long as the money poured in—

“Of course, he was also not averse to my daughter's person. She is, as you have no doubt observed, a lovely woman. They would have made a match—I'm sure of it—but for his untimely death.”

“I think death is rarely timely.”

“Right.”

They sat in silence, Mortimer apparently allowing his host to absorb what had been said. Offended by the audacity of the conversation, Jeremy was furious at the man's blatant attempt, even now, to manipulate matters at Kenrick. But it was impotent fury because, so far at least, the other's machinations had put his quarry right where Mortimer wanted him. The fact that the quarry had changed identities seemed to matter not at all.

Mortimer now added, “After your brothers died, your father thought that, once you understood matters, you would be agreeable to our plan.”

“So what—exactly—is it that you two had in mind?” Jeremy challenged, determined to force this arrogant bully to expose the full extent of his vulgarity.

“I think you probably understand.” The man sounded smug. “I offer you exactly what I offered your brother.”

“And that was . . . ?”

“I would ensure a generous settlement on my daughter, including an allowance for her husband—in addition to expunging all debt of the earldom.”

Jeremy frowned. “And
you
would get . . . ?”

“A father's assurance that his child was happy.” He said this piously and with a straight face. Then he added in a coldly matter-of-fact tone, “There are conditions. First, I assume title and control of all Kenrick properties—the lands and farms, the mill, the mines, and the brewery. And, secondly—although you keep the peerage and a seat in Parliament—you will take the name of Mortimer. You may add it to your own family name with one of those fancy hyphens, if you wish.”

Jeremy snorted. “You would strip the entire earldom of its very meaning.”

“Not precisely. I should expect that all would be restored to my grandson one day.”

“Lucky for you that my child is a female,” Jeremy said bitterly.

“No. I would say it was lucky for
you
,” Mortimer said. “If the brat had been a boy, I would have foreclosed immediately instead of granting that extension Phillips was so keen on negotiating.”

“And if Miss Mortimer does not care for such a match now?” Jeremy asked.

The lady's father waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, she wants it. I think she likes you better than she did your brother Charles. She and her mother both like the idea of moving in the best circles.”

“And I suppose
you
like the idea well enough too.”

“Yes. I admit it. I do.” Mortimer seemed now to become more affable. “So—you can see it would be in all our interests if you two were to come to an understanding.”

“I cannot like the crassness of this discussion,” Jeremy said.

A flush of anger suffused the older man's face. “You, my lord, cannot afford such refined sensibilities,” he sneered.

“You're probably right.” Jeremy tried not to allow his despair and disgust to show in his expression or tone, but inwardly he faced the bleak truth. He could walk away from Kenrick—the Hall, the estate, and all the other properties and concerns—not to mention the people dependent on the earldom. He had already proved, in the New World, he could make it on his own. And, in truth, what difference would it make? If he were to give in to this bully's demands, would the results not be the same as if he
had
walked away? Somehow Kenrick pride would not allow him to surrender helplessly—not now. Not ever. He might still lose, but—by God!—he would not allow himself to be manipulated like a puppet. He still had time. There was still a chance to save Kenrick.

Mortimer must have sensed some of this inner turmoil. “Well, you think on it some, my lord. I am sure you will come to the right decision. Meanwhile, I grant you my permission to pay court to my daughter.”

The knight's smile was a cold, mechanical grimace.

K
ate knew that, in an owner's absence, it often fell to the housekeeper to show visitors around a grand house. Nevertheless, she wondered briefly at this task she had been given. First of all, the owner was in no way absent. And, secondly, the parts of the house that could be shown were no longer so very grand.

“His lordship has closed off much of the house,” she explained apologetically.

“Never mind. We shall see what we may,” the younger woman said airily.

They had already seen the entranceway with its elegantly carved staircase winding upward, the stairwell towering fully three stories. She showed them the library, still well-stocked with books. Kate knew it to be a varied collection—everything from ancient classics to Shakespeare and contemporary novels such as Miss Austen's works—along with collections of poetry, sermons, and treatises on modern farming and animal husbandry.

“This room has a lived-in look about it,” Miss Mortimer commented.

Thinking the young woman sounded slightly disapproving, Kate said, “I believe it is his lordship's favorite.”

“He is a reader, then?” Miss Mortimer asked as she idly ran a hand over the spines of several volumes, but taking no note of the titles.

“I—uh—suppose so,” Kate said. She knew he often read late into the night.

She had first discovered this habit of her employer on her second night in the Hall. It had been nearly midnight; unable to sleep, she thought a book would help by either making her sleepy or at least providing a diversion. She threw on her rather nondescript robe and her bedroom slippers. Her hair hung loose in two long braids. Grabbing a candle in a holder and lighting it, she had been surprised on stepping into the hallway of the family area of the house that the footman charged with extinguishing lights at night had failed to do so, for light shone under the library door.

She discovered why as she stepped into the library. Lord Kenrick was ensconced in a comfortable leather chair, reading. On a table at his elbow a gaslight shone brightly; a half-empty glass of dark amber liquid sat near the lamp. She uttered a small gasp of surprise on seeing him. He looked up and started to rise on seeing her.

“No, please, do not get up,” she said, pleased, nevertheless, that with this man simple courtesies were extended to servants as well as elegant ladies. “I—I did not think to find anyone here so late. I thought to find a book—I shall leave you in peace.”

He sank back down. “No. No. By all means—” He gestured to the laden shelves. “I'm afraid the books are not well organized. What might you be interested in? Aunt Elinor has some novels over there by the window.”

“But I thought she—”

“She has a friend who reads to her. I do sometimes as well.”

“Oh. A novel would defeat my purpose,” she said with a laugh. “I'd be awake all night to find out what happens next. I thought maybe some poetry—”

“To the left of the fireplace.”

They were both silent as she surveyed the shelves he indicated. She felt his eyes on her as she did so and was acutely aware of the impropriety of her being here with him at this hour, dressed as she was. Strangely enough, she did not feel uncomfortable, though.

She took two books from the shelves.

“Ah, you found something.”

“Blake and Wordsworth. Both favorites of mine.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? I should not think there are many housekeepers whose tastes run to those two poets.”

“I suppose there is no accounting for taste,” she said, but mentally kicked herself for stepping out of the conventional housekeeper mold.

“No, I don't suppose there is.”

“Good night, my lord. And—thank you.”

He had waved a hand as she made her escape.

Now she added to the Mortimer women, “You must know that I came here only a few days ago.”

“Yes, I had heard that,” Miss Mortimer said. “I also heard that he found you in London after rejecting local women for the post—older women, that is. You have a son, have you not?”

Kate did not like the other woman's tone, but she answered quietly. “I do.”

Miss Mortimer raised one brow. “But . . . no husband?”

“My husband died at Toulouse,” Kate said shortly.

“How sad,” the older woman murmured with a glance at her daughter, whose brow was still raised in skepticism.

Kate changed the subject. “Much of the house is closed, as I told you, but I will show you the ballroom and the gallery, if you like.”

As she opened the gold velvet drapes, she apologized for the chill air in the ballroom and said a silent
thank you
for its having been dusted and aired out the day before, though Holland covers still shrouded the furniture along the walls. Mirrors along one wall reflected light from French doors opposite, which led to a large balcony. Two elaborate chandeliers would provide ample lighting at night. A painted ceiling depicted classical scenes of pastoral happiness.

Miss Mortimer skipped to the center of the room and whirled herself in an elaborate spin. “Oh! This is marvelous!” she gushed. “We
must
have a ball here, Mama.”

Her mother frowned slightly and chided, “Yes, dear. You might suggest as much to his lordship.”

“Can you not just see this room full of distinguished guests—all waiting anxiously for an important announcement?” Miss Mortimer swished her skirt in another spin about the room.

“I believe the green and gold decor is original,” Kate offered. “The room is patterned after the ballroom at the Palace of Versailles, though this one is square, whereas the one at Versailles is a long gallery.”

Something in Kate's tone seemed to have arrested the other young woman's attention. “You've been to Versailles?”

Kate could have kicked herself, but she answered honestly. “Yes. With my husband. During a temporary peace, which, unfortunately, did not last long.”

“Oh.” Miss Mortimer gestured dismissively. “I do not keep up with politics. I am perfectly content to leave that subject to the gentlemen.”

Who usually make a royal mess of things,
Kate thought, but she bit her tongue against saying this aloud.

In the gallery, Miss Mortimer had much to say of the costumes of the women in the portraits. She seemed quite knowledgeable about styles and fabrics. She showed little interest in the people in the portraits, which for Kate was just as well, since the housekeeper had not yet been given a thorough tour of the gallery herself. Then they came to a huge canvas depicting the late earl, his second wife, and his five children.

Kate looked closely at the young men in the picture. It had been made when the current earl was a very young adolescent, but already he had shown the high cheekbones and fine physique that would characterize the grown man. His older brothers, on the other hand, seven and nine years older than he, had—even then, in their twenties—shown signs of dissipation. She studied closely the two younger children in the portrait, a little girl about five, and a little boy of perhaps eight years. This child was of special interest to Kate, for he had grown up to become Lieutenant Robert Chilton, a particular friend to Arthur and to her. She smiled at seeing the man's friendly grin on the face of a child Ned's age.

“Hmm. I must say, Lord Kenrick—the current one, I mean—does not resemble his eldest brother,” Miss Mortimer commented. “Which is probably a blessing,” she added with a giggle.

Kate did not respond, but showed the ladies to another section of the house. She opened the drapes in the music room and in another, smaller, drawing room, which was sparsely furnished.

“This room will be perfect for entertaining lady friends,” Miss Mortimer said.

“Charlotte!” her mother admonished.

Kate pretended not to notice the older woman's speaking look at her daughter.

Miss Mortimer laughed. “Never mind, Mama. We both know I am not one to count my chickens before they are hatched.” She laughed again—triumphantly, it seemed. “And I believe mine are being hatched even as we speak.”

Again, Kate politely ignored the exchange between mother and daughter, but she could not ignore her own inward reaction. Miss Mortimer's crassness and her possessive attitude were grating, but as Lord Kenrick's housekeeper, Kate could evince little interest in her employer's personal life.

They continued the tour with the housekeeper dutifully showing such of the guest rooms as were presentable. Chambers occupied by Lady Elinor and Lord Kenrick were, of course, out of bounds, but the adjoining chambers of the master suite—those of the long absent countess—were not.

“A charming suite,” Miss Mortimer pronounced them, “though, please, not lavender and purple.” She put a finger to her cheek. “Hmm. Bright yellow, perhaps. I am one of those rare women who can wear yellows.”

Kate was fast developing a disgust of the other woman's seeing everything in terms of herself. But the behavior of a guest was none of the housekeeper's business, now, was it?

Finally, Miss Mortimer asked, “Have we seen it all, then? That is, all that is showable now?”

“All but the nursery,” Kate said. “That section of the house is the domain of Lady Cassandra, who is cared for there.”

“Oh, but we
must
see that too,” Miss Mortimer insisted.

“If you insist . . .” Kate was reluctant to thrust strangers upon the child.

“But of course. We could not possibly visit Kenrick Hall without paying our respects to dear Crannie,” Miss Mortimer gushed. “She was once
my
nurse, you know and lately Mama's companion. She is like a member of our family. It was I who recommended her to his lordship.”

In the nursery's main room, she gushed even more. She made a point of greeting Nurse Cranstan effusively and Kate noted that the nurse basked in such attention.

“How
are
you, really, Crannie? I would not have you unhappy.”

“I am quite well, miss. I do what I can. I must say, though, I haven't such fertile ground here as I once had.” This was said with a coy tone and a sidelong glance at the child whose quiet play had been interrupted.

Miss Mortimer sympathized. “One can only expect so much. I am sure you do your best, but blood
will
tell, will it not?”

Cranstan nodded vigorously. “Ah, yes.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “And when it is mongrel blood, it fairly shouts.” She seemed unduly pleased with her little play on words.

Miss Mortimer smiled her appreciation of the simple joke and patted Nurse Cranstan's shoulder. “Well, you just do what you can, dear Crannie. You will be amply rewarded for your efforts.”

“Thank you, miss.”

Miss Mortimer then turned her attention directly to the child. “And how are you, Lady Cassandra? Have you been learning your letters and numbers?”

The child nodded solemnly and Nurse Cranstan barked, “Answer the lady properly.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

It was not clear to Kate whether the little girl responded to Miss Mortimer or to Nurse Cranstan.

Miss Mortimer spied the golden-haired doll on a chair and picked it up. “What a beautiful doll. You must love this toy very much.”

Lady Cassandra looked as though she wanted to please, but did not know which woman to please at the moment. Kate caught her gaze and gave her an encouraging smile, which the little girl returned fleetingly.

“Where did you get such a lovely doll?” Miss Mortimer went on in the same false, condescending manner many adults used with children.

“My papa . . .” the child said softly.

“Your papa gave you this? How very nice.” Then she added, sotto voce to the adults, “Not exactly a match, would you say?” She fingered the blond tresses of the doll.

The little girl gazed from one woman to another in some bewilderment. Kate wanted pick her up and hug her and tell her everything was all right. Already Nurse Cranstan put a hand on her charge's shoulder to direct her back to her play.

Miss Mortimer absently put the doll on a nearby table and said, “I believe we have seen everything now. You may escort us back to the drawing room, Mrs. . . . Arthur, was it?”

“Yes, miss.”

Kate happily took her leave of the Mortimer ladies at the drawing room door. However, she was deeply disturbed—not only by the young woman's proprietary attitude toward the Hall, but, more profoundly, by what she had observed in the nursery. Cranstan's attitude toward young Lady Cassandra angered Kate. And her anger quickly shifted to the child's father.

Why on earth would a loving, caring parent entrust his child to a woman who felt as Cranstan obviously did? Or was he loving and caring? She had seen him only twice in the company of his daughter. They had walked through the kitchen on Kate's and Ned's first morning at the Hall. Father and daughter had both breakfasted already and were on their way to the stables. Ned had been sitting at a side table in the kitchen, finishing his own breakfast.

The two children were introduced and eyed each other warily—embarrassed as children are wont to be with adults hovering about.

A short while later, from a window in the kitchen, Kate had seen the earl and his daughter ride out, he on a fine-looking gray and she on a chestnut pony. He had seemed loving enough then. The next day he had brought her to the kitchen in the afternoon to suggest that the two children might enjoy playing in the garden—there was a maze there and the earl had asked a young footman to keep an eye out for them—and lead them out of the maze, if need be. He explained that this was Nurse Cranstan's half day off.

Later, Kate had asked Ned how the playtime had gone. He shrugged and said it was all right, he supposed. And had he enjoyed getting to know Lady Cassandra? Kate pursued.

“She's all right—for a girl,” Ned said.